


be a messenger with him

by Chrome



Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Conversations, Episode: c02e099 High Seas High Stakes, Fictional Religion & Theology, M/M, Missing Scene, Original Wildmother Lore, POV Fjord (Critical Role), Paladin Fjord (Critical Role), Storytelling
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-02
Updated: 2020-07-02
Packaged: 2021-03-05 03:54:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,602
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25038070
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chrome/pseuds/Chrome
Summary: “It’s true in the way any story is,” Caduceus says. “It’s true to the way I heard it. And if it is not true in the facts exactly as they happened I think it is true to the Wildmother and the ways She has been present in the lives of many. They are true to the ways I have known Her.”Fjord nods. “It’s a beautiful story.”“It is,” Caduceus says. He lays back on his bedroll, stretching out, all long and thin like the fragile branches of something. “So is yours, you know.”---Between Uk'otoa and the peace talks, Fjord and Caduceus have some things to say to each other.
Relationships: Caduceus Clay & Fjord, Caduceus Clay/Fjord
Comments: 48
Kudos: 191





	be a messenger with him

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to [Star](https://archiveofourown.org/users/stardreamertwo) for the beta read, and for the patience--I've been working on this fic for MONTHS and the return of Critical Role tonight finally kicked my ass into gear.
> 
> If any details of this sound inspired by Judaism--well, write what you know, right?
> 
> Edit: Spoilers through the first half of 99, R.

“Caduceus,” Fjord says.

“Hmm?” Caduceus lifts his head. The calm curiosity in his expression makes Fjord feel better about the trek he’s made to the crow’s nest to have this conversation. He’s been avoiding it, not even quite subconsciously—you fall to your death from a place, maybe you think twice about hanging out there on the regular.

But once he’s up there, he feels much better about it. The crow’s nest in the misty morning hours bears little resemblance to the way it had looked in the thick of a midnight storm. He glances down—the pillows have all been rearranged and are clean and dry again. He had a vague awareness of Caduceus dragging them down the previous afternoon, scrubbing and hanging them out along the lower level of the rigging like they were clothes out in the yard. Fjord hadn’t had the heart to stop him. They’re still a little stiff and smell of salt, but if the blood stain remains, Fjord can’t spot it.

The salt is the unavoidable thing; it settles into everything, the rope, the food, your skin and hair. Fjord’s is as long as he’s ever had it out on the sea and he’s grateful that it isn’t longer, even though he likes the way it looks, the way he can draw it up into a little ponytail to get it off his neck. Caduceus’ is curlier than usual, heavy with the salt-air, and when he cooks or cleans he twists it up into a knot secured with an ivory-colored stick. Fjord is pretty sure it’s some kind of carved bone but he’s also decided he doesn’t actually want the confirmation.

“You need something?” Caduceus asks. “You could’ve shouted. I’d’ve come down.”

“It’s not important,” Fjord assures him quickly. “Besides, I—wanted to come up here again.” Well.  _ Wanted  _ is not the right word. But he wanted to want to come up to the crow’s nest again, to sit in the pillow fort Caduceus had assembled, to stare out over the misty sea. He’s relieved that the initial apprehension faded so quickly. It’s a peaceful view, the sea deep green where he can see it beneath the patches of mist, the faint brushline of a horizon.

Caduceus nods. “I understand.”

Fjord remembers Caduceus throwing himself into the sea because he hadn’t wanted to, because he had been afraid every time he would drown.

Caduceus probably understands perfectly.

The silence that falls between them is peaceful, broken only distantly by the crew on the deck below, the lap of the waves, and loud voices that must be Beau and Nott having some sort of argument and/or conversation on the aft deck at a volume loud enough to reach them but not enough for Fjord to comprehend the words. After a while, without really meaning to, Fjord’s eyes drift from the sea to Caduceus, who is looking out into the mist, eyes half-lidded. Without turning, he seems to sense Fjord’s gaze.

“What can I do for you?”

“I was wondering if—you know a lot of stories, don’t you?”

“I know a few,” Caduceus says. “Stories about what?”

“The Wildmother,” Fjord says. “About—not just about the three families. About—paladins?”

“Oh, sure,” Caduceus says. “I know a few of those. They were always Calliope’s favorite. What sort of story?”

“About how—how they found Her?” Fjord asks. “I know you were born into it, and I can’t imagine I’ve done things the—usual way. I don’t know how many of Her paladins start out as, uh. Warlocks.”

“Oh, probably a few,” Caduceus smiles at him. “But not too many. You’re pretty special.”

Fjord can feel his face heating and turns away, hoping that the blush doesn’t creep all the way down his neck. “I was wondering if you knew any other stories about paladins…getting  _ started _ , I suppose.”

“Yeah,” Caduceus says. “I know some stories about that.”

“Could you—you don’t have to,” Fjord adds, hastily, “But if you don’t mind, I’d like to hear them.”

“Sure,” Caduceus says, and then he’s quiet for long enough that Fjord almost speaks again to prompt him, but then he says, “This happened a long time ago, in the north. A child was born in the winter, in a little valley in the mountains. But as she grew up, the season never changed. Not long before she was born, a curse had been laid upon the land, and although the seasons changed in the peaks and the valleys all around it, the winter stayed in the valley where she had been born.

“When she was born, the elders of the village said it was just a long winter, that spring would come again. But it never did. She grew older and the snow never melted, and although she knew that there was such a thing, she never knew anything besides the wind and the ice and the cold. The winter lasted so long that even the water in the earth began to freeze, and they couldn’t have laid in seeds even if the snow had melted because the cold had gotten so deep.

“Some people left, but this child and her mother never did, because it was the valley that her mother had been born into and even though it was harder and harder to live there, she couldn’t bear to leave. And this child had never known the difference so although she knew it was difficult and knew that there was such a thing as spring, it had never been hers and so she did not miss it.”

Caduceus pauses, gaze fixed on the distant horizon. Fjord looks out at it, too, but all he can see is the water, becoming slowly more visible as the mist burns off. He isn’t even sure if Caduceus is seeing the ocean or something else—a valley caked in white, a child who has never known spring.

“But as the years went on, the villagers who remained began to grow cold, too. The frost crept into their hearts just as surely as it crept into the earth, and they began to look for someone to blame. Not too many people were left, and of them, there was only one of them who did not weep for the seasons they had lost because they were seasons that she had never known.”

“They blamed the child?” Fjord is surprised by the indignation in his own voice.

“She was a child of that first long winter,” Caduceus says, “And rather than having come with it, they began to think of her as having brought it. So one long, dark night, they came to the cottage where she lived with her mother, and they held her mother back while they carried her out into the snow without even a coat, beyond the edge of the village, far enough into the trees that she could no longer see the lights to find her way back. And they left her in the forest to die.

“She tried to follow them, but she was in her nightclothes with no shoes and they were much older and faster and dressed for the weather. Before she could make it too far, the falling snow covered their footprints, and she could not remember the way, and though she stumbled through the trees for as long as she could, she never found the lights of the village.”

Now it is Fjord’s turn to stare out at nothing, seeing only the world that takes form in Caduceus’ voice. He can see it so clearly—a child, shivering, stumbling through the ice and the darkness, tripping over roots. He can imagine how she feels. Cold, hopeless. Abandoned and alone and lost. His heart twists with anger at the villagers and helplessness for her.

He is startled out of the image by a hand on his. Fjord looks down to see Caduceus gently uncurling his fist, straightening out the fingers that have dug into his palm. There is a little line of red marks where his claws have bit in. Caduceus smooths a thumb across it and Fjord feels a strange burst of itching warmth, a little fluttering thing beating its wings across his skin, and when Caduceus lifts his finger the scratches are gone.

Fjord flushes, embarrassed. Caduceus says nothing, though, and doesn’t let go either, just leaves Fjord’s hand loosely held in his own.

“When she had begun to lose hope entirely, she stumbled upon a set of footprints that remained unburied by the snow. She began to follow them, and although she felt as though she walked for a long time and the snow continued to fall heavily, they remained visible. At first she thought this meant that she was not far behind the person, but after some time, she realized that the snow was falling  _ around  _ the footprints. This frightened her, but she knew if she stayed in the forest she would die anyway, and so she continued to follow them.

“She stepped into one of the footprints as she walked, and as she did so the cold seemed to fade from around her. When she stood within them she was warm, not just as though from a fire, but as though the air itself was warm, and as she walked through the snow grew deeper and deeper but she was feeling spring for the first time.

“All at once she reached a place where the trees cleared, and she could see the dark clouds above. They rumbled with thunder and then with a voice, and the Wildmother spoke to her.

“And the Wildmother told her of the curse that had been laid upon the land almost a decade ago, and told her that if she went beyond the edges of the valley, the winter would end. She offered to lead her beyond it and into the summer of the rest of the world.

“But the child thought about her mother and about the others who stayed behind, and she thought about the valley itself and the earth freezing solid and the trees whose leaves could never regrow, and she knew she couldn’t leave it behind. She asked instead what she could do to break the curse and bring the summer back.

“When she asked, lightning split the sky, and in the clouds she saw for the first time the face of the Wildmother, and she fell to her knees in the snow. And in the roll of thunder that followed the Wildmother told her that what she asked for would mean a much more difficult journey than the path out of the valley, and it would mean going far beyond the mountains where she had grown up. But she told the Wildmother that she could not forsake the village that raised her even if it had forsaken her. So the Wildmother promised to lead her, and the lightning split the tree before her, and where it had stood was a truncheon made of shining dark wood, standing up in the snow. And she lifted it, and followed the path melted into the snow by the lightning strike out of the valley and towards the Wildmother, that night and forever after.”

Caduceus lets out a sigh and Fjord startles a little. He had gotten lost in the image again, and in the steady rhythm of Caduceus’ voice. “And that is the story of how Ilidia, the Champion of Spring, found the Wildmother.”

“Did she do it?” Fjord asks. “Break the curse on the valley?”

“She did,” Caduceus answers. “And many other things besides. But you asked for a story of how a paladin found the Wildmother, and that is how she did—in the lightning above the forest that night.”

Fjord nods. He blinks a couple times to clear his vision and readjust to where he really is—the crow’s nest, with Caduceus, above the Balleater. The mist has finished burning off the water as they have sat there, and the horizon is fully visible out beyond the waves.

Fjord’s hand is still in Caduceus’. Fjord is suddenly hyperaware of the feeling, as though all the nerves in his body have shifted to feel Caduceus’ palm against his. It’s horrible and wonderful. He can’t bring himself to pull away. He turns to look at Caduceus again, expecting him to be staring out at the water, but their eyes meet instead. Fjord’s breath catches. Caduceus just smiles at him, wide and slow.

“Hey, Captain!” His focus is shattered as Beau bellows from the deck below. “CAPTAIN! WHERE THE FUCK ARE YOU?”

“Here!” he shouts back, withdrawing his hand with an apologetic look at Caduceus. “One moment!”

“We can’t find Caduceus!”

“Here too,” Caduceus says, but it isn’t loud enough to carry down to the deck even though Caduceus is visibly attempting to raise his voice. Fjord has never heard him shout—even in battle, his warnings sometimes fail to rise over the sounds of fighting. He isn’t sure Caduceus is capable of it.

“He’s with me!” Fjord shouts back. As he stands to descend, he says, “Thank you. I enjoyed hearing that.”

“Of course,” Caduceus says. There is something strangely hesitant as he adds, “I know a few others, if you’d ever like to hear them.”

“I’d love to,” Fjord says, sincerely. “Another time?”

“Of course.”

Fjord gives Beau credit for only one thing; she waits until he has descended to say, “Sorry, didn’t know I was  _ interrupting _ ,” with a wicked grin. He glances up nervously, but Caduceus, climbing down behind him, is hopefully still too far up to catch it.

“Wait, what?” Nott says, confused.

“Nothing,” Fjord says, with some relief. “Nothing at all.”

\---

Fjord does take Caduceus up on the offer for more stories. He almost doesn’t; it always feels like an imposition to make a request for no real reason than his own enjoyment—and whatever he told himself originally about making investigations into his faith, some part of him knows that he really just wants to get lost in the steady rumble of Caduceus’ voice again.

But Caduceus doesn’t make offers that he doesn’t mean. That has taken some getting used to. Total sincerity—it’s an odd safety net to have, in a conversation. To know that every kind word that Caduceus says, he means—that every offer, every extended hand, every reassurance, is the truth.

So are his stories, Fjord thinks, although Caduceus never cites them as infallible doctrine. Fjord asks, after the second one, the one that Caduceus tells him as they get ready for bed that night, whether it’s true. The others drift around them, preparing spells, mending clothes, counting buttons in a series of infuriating clinks. Caduceus conjures his Guardian before he settles down next to Fjord, cross-legged.

“Once,” Caduceus says, “There lived an elf called Filavanderel…”

This one hits a little less hard than the first, which is mostly because Fjord can’t see himself so easily in Filavanderel. This elf is the youngest son of a family driven out of their ancestral lands by human bandits. In the depths of his despair, he followed a voice through a cursed, strangled wood and drew a gleaming sword from the earth. Swearing on that blade, he pledges himself to the Wildmother and takes on the task of purging a cursed forest of monsters, restoring it to Melora and making a home for his family all at once.

It’s a beautiful story, and Fjord sees something in Caduceus’ eyes as he tells it that makes him think it means a little more to the child of a cursed forest like Caduceus than it does to Fjord, who never before now had a home to lose.

“Is it true?” Fjord asks, after another moment.

“What?” Caduceus says. “Oh, the story?”

“I mean,” Fjord says, “Not that I’m calling you a liar—“

“Oh, I didn’t think that,” Caduceus assures him. He thinks for a moment. Beau, getting ready for bed on the far end of the cabin, has stopped mid-changing clothes and is watching them. Fjord makes pointed eye contact, and briefly thinks he may have abashed her for—spying? Eavesdropping? It’s just storytelling, it isn’t a secret except that for some reason it feels personal—and then she smirks and pulls her shirt the rest of the way off because she knows he’ll look away embarrassed.

“It’s true in the way any story is,” Caduceus says. “It’s true to the way I heard it. And if it is not true in the facts exactly as they happened I think it is true to the Wildmother and the ways She has been present in the lives of many. They are true to the ways I have known Her.”

Fjord nods. “It’s a beautiful story.”

“It is,” Caduceus says. He lays back on his bedroll, stretching out, all long and thin like the fragile branches of something. “So is yours, you know.”

Fjord’s breath catches and he can’t respond, because he knows that like everything Caduceus says, it is the truth, or at least the truth that Caduceus believes.

Because Caduceus believes—believes that Fjord is meant for something more. Sees things in the insubstantial mist of the future, in a broken sword, in a haunted wood, in a half-orc who never thought he was meant to be anybody important. And the nasty voice in Fjord’s head that sounds like the head of the orphanage and the other children taunting him for his tusks and the second mate who hated him that first voyage and all the other people who have been cold and dismissive and cruel balled up together into a single haunting tone, it says  _ who cares what he believes, you know what you are, how could this possibly be right? _

But Caduceus  _ believes _ . And what Caduceus believes comes true—believes that they will be healed, or guarded, that golden insects will shield them from enemies, that a voice in the wind will bring him answers. What Caduceus believes is real through the sheer power of that belief. Caduceus’s faith has parted the ocean, has sunk ships, has shattered magical chains and has brought Fjord back to life.

And Caduceus believes—Caduceus believes in Fjord.

That belief is at least as true as the story of Ilidia, as the story of Filavanderel. Maybe twice as true, because Fjord has heard it for himself rather than secondhand.

None of them, Fjord thinks as he lays down on the bed in the darkness, had a whole person. Story after story of paladins called to the Wildmother, drawn by omens and weapons and dreams, and what Fjord gets is Caduceus. What Fjord gets for his faith is a sword and a power within him and a purpose, and Caduceus.  _ I am your sign from the Wildmother,  _ and Fjord bears no envy for his predecessors who drew star-metal from the earth, who dreamed the divine, who saw the face of the Mother in the flicker of lightning. Fjord’s sign does not rust or fade or blink out in a flash of brilliance; Fjord’s messenger sleeps inches from him, snoring softly, the soft pink of the hair tangled over his shoulder seeming to reflect the faint glowing radiance of the knight he summoned just so Fjord could sleep.

Fjord studies his guardian for a moment, but his gaze always returns to Caduceus’ face. With his eyes closed and sharp gaze shuttered, he looks as young as he really is, long lashes against cheekbones that seem too close beneath the skin. All the light against him is reflected from the spells and the moon creeping through the cannon-slats, but he seems still to glow with it. Fjord had felt a strange pang of loss when the lighthouse of Nicodranus faded from view, but it feels unnecessary now. He has brought Her beacon with him.

It is the spiritual guardian who will protect him, but it is Caduceus’ sleeping face that makes Fjord feel safe, and the twin images of their cleric and the lighthouse blur in his dreams and carry him through until the morning.

\---

He goes to find Caduceus in the galley the next morning, in the quiet period between breakfast and lunch, the fog burned off and the sky clear.

Caduceus is cooking; a pot simmers on the stove, and he stands at the cutting board. Fjord leans in and looks. “Fish?”

“Yasha caught them for me,” Caduceus answers. “Not sure what kind, but I think they’re good to eat.”

Pretty much any fish is alright to eat provided it isn’t one of the exotic poisonous kinds, and Fjord leans around to see that it’s silver-grey and fish-shaped, so he’ll leave that to Caduceus’ judgment. “Smells good.”

“That’s just seaweed,” he says. “For the stock.”

“You don’t make that with the fish, too?”

“No,” Caduceus says. “Well, sometimes. But then I’d be making it with fish and with seaweed.”

It dawns on him. “Because you don’t eat meat,” Fjord says.

“That’s right,” Caduceus says pleasantly, as though Fjord isn’t an idiot who has apparently failed to internalize one of the first facts he learned about the man.

“But you’ll cook it?”

“Sure.”

“It’s a—religious thing, right?”

“I’d say so, yeah,” Caduceus agrees, after a moment of thought.

“So, uh,” Fjord gestures vaguely at the fish Caduceus is slicing into. “Should I stop, uh, eating meat?”

“No,” Caduceus says. He flips the fish open, grips the spines, and pulls. It comes away all in one piece. It’s very graceful in the grossest way possible. “Not unless you want to.”

“Why don’t you?”

Caduceus doesn’t drop the spine on the pile of guts, instead setting it aside. “For fish stock,” he explains, without Fjord’s asking. He’s uncanny like that. “Two reasons,” Caduceus says. “One is that sometimes I ask things of animals, you know,” he looks at Fjord and Fjord nods, understanding. “And when I’m not a predator to them, I feel that comes from a better place.”

“Sure, alright,” Fjord agrees. “That makes sense. What’s the other reason?”

“I suppose this would work with anything,” Caduceus says. “Not eating flesh, or not drinking, or not eating a certain type of animal, or anything that you think about, as you eat. You could do it with something besides eating. Not cursing. Something that becomes a part of your life, and every time you do it—or don’t do it, or you change your behavior because of it—you are reminded that you follow Her, and it makes you feel closer to Her.” He glances at Fjord. “So if not eating meat—if anything I said, or something else—would make you feel good, and closer, and reminded, then you should do it. But I suspect it would just feel like a burden to you, and it isn’t meant to be.”

Fjord nods, marveling at the way that Caduceus makes things that feel very complicated inside Fjord sound very simple when he says them out loud. “Alright. I’ll—keep eating meat, then.”

Caduceus nods. “Besides,” he comments, “I think you need to.”

“I—what?”

“There’s a thing in meat,” he says. “A nutrient, that carnivorous species need. I’d guess orcs need it, and you’re at least half that. It’s called—oh, I don’t remember. Starts with a ‘t’.”

“Huh,” Fjord says.

“Is that what you came here to ask?” Caduceus asks.

“Maybe I came here for the pleasure of your company,” Fjord says. “I don’t always have a question.” As soon as he says it, he isn’t sure. “Do I?” He doesn’t like the idea that he only seeks out Caduceus to ask him things.

“I think you always have questions,” Caduceus says. “And our conversations tend to drift towards them. I don’t mind it. I always have questions, too. I tend to ask the Wildmother, but if it’s easier for you to ask me, that’s alright.”

Fjord watches Caduceus’ knife go through another fish, straight through to the bones. He empathizes. Caduceus effortlessly slices through to the heart of him, too. “I wanted to ask you about the stories.”

“What about them? Did you want to hear another?”

“What was your favorite? You said Calliope liked the ones about paladins. About Ilidia, and Filavandriel--” he breaks off.

“Hmm,” Caduceus says. “I liked the one I’ve already told you best. The one about the three families. About Clay and Dust and Stone.”

Fjord nods, almost accepting it, and then he hesitates. “But—a story like the kind Calliope liked, about who you’d want to be…”

“I wanted…” Caduceus pauses. His knife strokes slow down, too, as he thinks. “To be a good cleric. To do my duty. They don’t tell stories about that.”

“About—“ Fjord breaks off, trying to align his revelations from the night before with what Caduceus is saying. “They’ll tell stories about you. They do tell stories about—signs. About messengers.”

Caduceus’ knife has stilled entirely. He is looking at Fjord in the pleasant way he does when he has no idea what you’re talking about.

“Ilidia, in the storm. She found the footprints of the Wildmother. And Filavanderel heard Her too, when he found that sword.”

“Yes,” Caduceus says.

“I hear her sometimes,” Fjord says. “When I dream, sometimes. Not—sometimes I think I heard Uk’otoa clearer,” he admits.

“You’ll get there,” Caduceus rushes to reassure him. “You’ve done  _ so  _ well—“

He shakes his head, even though a rush of warmth blooms in his chest. He won’t let himself be distracted from this. “What I’m trying to say is—even when I have a hard time hearing her. Or knowing what she wants—I hear you. I have you. What Ilidia or Filavanderel or Calliope, I’d guess, or—I know you have more stories, and I want to hear them—but what they found, the way they found the Wildmother. I found you. My footprints in the snow, my voice in the wind—that is  _ you _ , Caduceus. I wouldn’t be here without you—literally would not be here, you brought me  _ back to life  _ and you pulled him out of me—“ Fjord has stopped consciously picking words. They’re simply spilling out of him.

Caduceus’ eyes are big and bright. There is something beautiful and certain and true in the way they are looking at each other.

“They tell stories about that,” Fjord repeats. “They’ll tell stories about you.  _ I’ll  _ tell them. About how you saved me.”

“Well, that’s not quite true. You saved yourself,” Caduceus says. “And the Wildmother helped.”

Fjord shakes his head. “It is true to the ways I have known Her,” he echoes. “And how I have known you. So—uh.” The words desert him, as quickly as they’d come. “Thank you.”

“Thank you,” Caduceus says. “It is—watching you, has been, is—I meant it. It’s been worth— _ everything _ , all of it. I wouldn’t trade any of it. Well. I wouldn’t like a repeat of the other night. Try and stay with us, is all I mean.”

He finally refocuses enough to finish cleaning the fish. Fjord leans against the counter and watches as he separates out some fishless broth and then adds it into the pot, portioning out vegetables and salt and herbs Fjord vaguely recognizes but couldn’t name.

When he turns back, Caduceus almost seems surprised to see Fjord still there. “This will—be a minute. Anyway.” He smiles and puts lids on the pots. “Thought I’d get some fresh air, if you want to come.”

“I’ll follow you,” Fjord agrees, and trails behind him up the stairs and into the light.

**Author's Note:**

> Can't believe I wrote a myth.
> 
> If you can, please leave a comment--they mean a lot.
> 
> I'm [catalists](http://catalists.tumblr.com/) on Tumblr or [@chromecatalists](https://twitter.com/chromecatalists/) on Twitter. Come say hi!


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